


Ask And You Shall Receive (Darkest Before The Dawn)

by Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox



Series: Dream a Little Dream (Of How You Want The World To Be) [3]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon Era, I promise, Kyele asked me for a happy fic with trevilieu, Multi, This is not that fic, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, attempted marital rape, but nothing happens, marital rape, minor mentions of bodily mutilation, not a happy fic, still nothing happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4249281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The girl who was not yet Constance Bonacieux was born in early spring, with Anne written across her neck like a choker, and Louis dipping behind her shoulder blade, nearly invisible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask And You Shall Receive (Darkest Before The Dawn)

The girl who was not yet Constance Bonacieux was born in early spring, with _Anne_ written across her neck like a choker, and _Louis_ dipping behind her shoulder blade, nearly invisible.

She used to think she only had one soulmate, the Anne that her mother hid with ribbons and necklaces, tied nearly so tight that she turned blue. Soulmates like that, her mother said, were unnatural. Soulmates like that, she said, shouldn’t exist.

The little Louis curling around her shoulder was almost a blessing;  being someone’s third wasn’t as bad as being a freak of nature. But her father wouldn’t understand. He never did. (She wasn’t nearly so young as to not hear the words about people like her: _Slut, whore, greedy bitch_.)

Her mother was right about one thing; hiding protected her. Pretending she had no soulmate was better than having two, and she was content enough with her life, even though she wasn’t exactly happy.

Then her father introduced her to Jacques Bonacieux, a merchant visiting from Paris. He was pleasant enough, she supposed; dark haired and dark eyed and stuttering over speaking to her. He smelled of sandalwood and expensive colognes, and she dreamt for not the first time of the Louis that adorned her shoulder. But Bonacieux’s hands were sweaty when he kissed her hand, and that dream was shattered.  “A pleasure, Mademoiselle,” He told her when he met her, and the shudder when he touched her had nothing to do with pleasure and girly fantasies, and everything to do with how tight her collar felt against her neck, how her dress was chafing her back.

After that, Monsieur Bonacieux never seemed far. He appeared at all times, when she was shopping in the market, when her parents took her out on a picnic. He wasn’t terrible, no, and perhaps they could be good friends, if only her father stopped looking like that when they were together; if only Bonacieux was less tender in his affections. If only she could breathe when he was around.

He enjoyed going on walks with her, strolling out around the hills; they were still in public, and her mother was never far, but it was still nice. He was a good man, she supposed. Not perfect, but still alright.

“I have no soulmate too, you know,” He told her, his wrists pale and his hands lacking gloves, and her necklace felt so tight around her neck. “People like us are always so left out in the world, Constance---If I may call you Constance.”

“It’s alright,” she acquiesced.

“Everyone else has a soulmate, Constance, and I can’t be that for you. I never could. But you make me happy, and I think that I could maybe make you happy too.”

“Monsieur Bonacieux---”

“Jacques.”  
“Jacques, I…” Her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. I’m not like you, was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Listen to me, Constance,” he took her hand again. “I could make you so happy, Constance. I’m moving up in the world. I can take care of you.”

“Jacques---”

“Think about it, Constance.” He pressed a kiss to her hand, she fought back a cringe. He was a lovely man. But he didn’t feel right. And she had spent too long dreaming about some mysterious couple named Louis and Anne to ever think of anyone else. “I leave for Paris in three days. Give me an answer by then.” Then he continued walking in the direction of the inn he was staying at, as she stood dumbstruck in the middle of the road.

The walk back to her house went by in a murky blur punctuated by omnipresent fear and guilt. He couldn’t know. If she married him---Oh god, if she married him---

She didn’t want to marry him. He was a good man and a good friend, but dear god, she didn’t want to marry him.  And if she married him---He would know. She touched her necklace; the spot where, underneath the cameo, her soulmark would lay. _Anne._ Anne and Louis. Perhaps they were married already---but, no, they wouldn’t have each other's names. One of them would’ve had hers. One of them was waiting for her.

The door to the house shut with the same old creak that it had for years. “You should marry him, you know.”

“Mother!”

She had been waiting up by the fire, staring at her with those gray eagle eyes that never let Constance get away with anything as a child.  “He might be the only chance you get, Constance. The one man from here to Paris that doesn’t seem to waiting for some goddamned soulmate,” she scoffed, in that tone of voice that showed that she had been in father’s brandy again.

“I hardly know him.” _Don’t make me marry him._

“Constance.” Her mother snapped voice cold and suddenly far more sober. “Don’t tell me you’re still holding out for those---those damn leches who have their names branded on you.”

Leches. The only people in the world who were certain to love her, and too her mother they were no more than dirty old men.“They’re my soulmates!”

“You would’ve been better off with them both dead,” she hissed, and grabbed at Constance's arm. “You think they can protect you?  Your Anne  gave you a death sentence the moment you were born, Constance. You think they will love you? A soulmate doesn’t guarantee that. It only means that you cannot live without them, no matter how much it hurts.” Her hands were cold and her fingernails were sharp, biting into her skin. “But you can live without them, Constance. Even if it does hurt.” Her mother pulled her hands off of Constance, only for her mother to rip her own glove off.  Frederick curled around her arm in large, angry red print.

All soulmarks were black, the stories said. All soulmarks were black except dead ones. But eventually everyone grew old enough to hear horror stories. Stories of people whose soulmates were cruel, stories of people who fell in love with someone else.

Stories of people who hated the name on their skin so much that they tried to cut it out. They said it was as painful as tearing your soul into two, that sort of self-mutilation. The stories that Constance heard called them half-people, empty and hollow and on occasion, heartless.

Constance would never call her mother heartless. Simply prudent in a  painful way. Yet until this moment, she had never thought those stories were real. The red soulmark stared at her, as though it was as bloody as the day her mother had ripped it out. It was too painful to comprehend. Yet somehow, they were true. Her mother had cut her own soulmate out of her skin. It couldn’t have been anyone else. Nobody touched someone else’s soulmark---not if they weren’t their soulmate. It just wasn’t done. It was immoral, taboo. It felt _wrong_ , for everyone involved. There was never any skin-to-skin contact. Let alone gouging it out with a knife.

Her mother carefully rolled her glove back up her arm. “I’m better without him, Constance. You are better without them,” she said. “Marry Bonacieux, and he will take care of you. Waste your life on a daydream, and you will end up ridiculed and starving.” She stared at her, eyes cold and gray and sharp. “I will not allow that to happen. Even if I have to rip their names off of you myself.”

Her mother retired to bed, then, striding away and leaving Constance to stand stick-straight as she did so, unmoving and pale. Yet the minute the door crashed shut she scrambled like a madwoman, ripping the choker off her neck as fast as she could, not caring if the ribbon ripped. Her right hand went immediately to her neck; the other hand fiddled with the buttons on her dress to reach the little letters on her shoulder. She needed to reassure herself that they were still there.

She collapsed onto the floor, still in front of the fireplace. She shook like she was going insane, but she couldn’t even bring herself to care. They were there. They were still there. They were there, and she needed to keep them there. And if it took marrying Bonacieux to keep their bond intact, if it took marrying Bonacieux to save herself, and them, from the unimaginable pain that it would take to break it, she would do it.. So that they all wouldn’t have to feel hollow. She would do it all for them.

She closed her eyes and dreamt of sunshine and laughter and all the things that could never be.

 

The day she married Bonacieux, the sun shined hot, and she could barely breathe with her corset and the damned blue ribbon that curled around her neck. Bonacieux smiled at her; she tried to smile back. It didn’t work. The village priest started speaking in a low rumble: the vows that would tie her to Bonacieux for the rest of her life.

She thought desperately of all the impossible scenarios where she came out of this unmarried; one where it began pouring for no reason and they had to relocate, and she could just run away. She imagined the King of France himself walking up and demanding that she couldn’t be wed.

But that was a silly dream, and when it was her turn to say _I do_ , she stuttered but she did it. Her voice broke, but she did it. That was alright, though. They’d chalk it up to wedding nerves.

Bonacieux kissed her, then. It was chaste and his lips were chapped and she felt nothing at all when he did it. Strange. She had imagined something more for her first kiss, she supposed.  Something a little like fireworks;  something exciting, something new. This hardly felt like anything at all.

The reception that her mother planned was lovely and impersonal. The cake, though it had been her favorite, tasted like ash under her tongue. She could never look at buttercream icing the same again; it clung to the roof of her mouth, and all she could think was: _this is betraying them, isn’t it?_

“Something the matter?” Bonacieux asked her, his breath warm on her ear. She shook her head with a faked smile, because she didn’t trust her voice.   

 

The night was ending all too soon, she realized, as slowly her friends and relatives began to dissipate one by one. Eventually Bonacieux pulled her aside and into a carriage, and brought her home and---oh.

She hadn’t thought much about the wedding _night_.  She hadn’t thought about him undoing her dress, him on top of her. Hadn’t thought of the paralysing fear, or her breath catching in her throat.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise,” he murmured, his kisses wet against her cheek, then her jaw. She fought the urge to squirm. Her heart pounded in her chest, too fast, but she didn’t move. He was her husband. Her husband. She could endure. Countless others had, she wouldn’t be the first.

Yet her soulmark burned when he touched it, even through the fabric of her flimsy necklace. Her breath came too quick, but it still felt like she couldn’t breathe. She could do this. She could. (No she couldn’t.) She could.

Every kiss he pressed onto her skin was wet and too warm, and made her skin crawl. She couldn’t do this, but she could bring herself to move, and oh god---

He undid her necklace. The ribbon fell away almost immediately, and she could feel him tense up. She knew he saw. His hands gripped her painfully, she knew she would have bruises. They’d be dark against her skin, too. Like a cruel soulmark of his own, branding her as his.

“You told me you had no soulmate,” he said. “You told me---”

“I know.” She refused to look at his face.

“You lied to me,” he hissed. “You tricked me! You’re nothing more than a damn hussy with the wrong sort of name on you.”

“I---Bonacieux---”

“Get out.” He pushed her. “Get out!”

She gathered the rest of her skirts along with what was left of her dignity, and stumbled her way out of his room. There was an extra bedroom down the hall, she knew. She could---She could sleep there.

The door shut behind her with a click. Only then did she allow herself to fall to the ground with a sob, curling her legs close to her chest.

She stayed that way until morning.

 

She was quiet all through the next day, unsure of what would happen to her now. Would he tell her secret? Officially, the authorities didn’t care about soulmarks. But unofficially…. She touched her back, her neck.

Besides, he could always take her to a church. His liar of a wife with more than one soulmate. A seductress. A witch.

They could burn her at the stake. Do all sorts of things to her. Perhaps they’d rip her soulmarks out, just like she had married Bonacieux to avoid.

She could run, though. she would pack her things and---make a living as a seamstress somewhere Bonacieux could never find her. She’d do that. He  couldn’t hurt her if he didn’t know where she was. She could take on her cousin’s old name, Marie Lablanche, she could find a horse and get out of Paris---

Yet none of that would happen. Bonacieux cornered her in the kitchen. “I have come to apologize for my behavior last night.”

“What?”

“Despite that...Name on your skin, you are still my wife. And since you have chosen to become my wife, instead of running after that...Girl, I owe you a some respect.”

“Oh...thank you.”

“You cannot choose the name you have, I suppose.”

“No.”

“Then there is nothing that can be done about it.” He frowned. “This is the only leniency I will allow, however. You have chosen to become my wife, therefor you must respect that. I will not allow any….transgressions,”

“Of course not.”

 

Thus, she and Bonacieux were content, for a while. Not happy, never quite happy, but it was bearable. For their first anniversary, he gave her a sort of cosmetic; a white cream to hide her soulmarks. She liked that even worse than the necklaces and the high backed dresses, hated the way it made her skin itch and burn.

Then a young Gascon kissed her in the middle of the market, and it all went downhill from there.  D’Artagnan was  a reckless idiot, but he was exciting and kindhearted, and everything she never let herself want.

Sometimes, once the candles had burned down their wicks, and the moon was high in the ink-black sky, she laid next to Bonacieux, and prayed. Louis D’Artagnan. It wasn’t so strange of a name. It could happen. Maybe he had Constance’s name, or maybe he had Anne’s, but it didn’t really matter, so long as he had one of them. As long as he was hers.

Being with D’Artagnan was perhaps the closest thing she had ever felt to love. He always smiled at her when he spoke to her; his hands were always warm, but not like Bonacieux.  He always complimented her, on her hair, her dress. He would teach her to shoot, and that was the best gift he could have ever given her.

Things weren’t safe, for a girl like her. Things were never safe for women, but especially not for a girl like her. Now, she would at least be able to protect herself in some way. She could sleep better, at least, thinking that she could.

“You load it like this, see Constance?” He said to her in one such lesson. His hands moved deftly around the pistol, and she tried desperately to remember all of it. He had nice hands, long-fingered and brown. He had a smaller frame than would be suspected of a farmer, too, but she didn’t mind.  Lithe and tan. “Then, when you’ve got it loaded, you just...position yourself like this...yeah, that’s right…”

His hands were warm against the small of her back as he guided her, his breath hot on the junction between her shoulder and her neck as he whispered into her ear. There was supposed to be a feeling like sparks when you touched your soulmate. If she tried hard enough, she could almost feel them. This had to be him. Had to.

“Then you just pull the trigger and shoot,” he said.

He hadn’t prepared her for the whiplash. She went careening into him; he obviously hadn’t thought about it either, and they both tumbled to the ground.

She fell ontop of him, her landing was softer than expected. His chest was warm. It was almost nice. She could hear his heartbeat, the steady pulse.

“Constance?” He groaned.

She was still lying on top of him. Her face must have been a furious red. She scrambled to get off of him. “Sorry---”  She paused.

His shirt had come a little undone. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the fall, or her clumsy movements, but it didn’t matter. There, on his chest and disappearing under his collar, was a little cursive A.

She moved like a woman possessed. She had to see. It had to say it. It had to. If it said Anne, then it would be real. They would be soulmates. She had to see. She tugged at his shirt.

He noticed what she was doing too late. “Constance, no---”

_Athos_ , it read. Then smaller, underneath it and scratched out, _Olivier._

Not Anne. Not Constance. Just some man who used to be known as Olivier.

“Constance---Constance, you can’t---” he sounded frantic. She wasn’t sure why, it wasn’t _him_ who had thought she was his soulmate---

Oh. He thought she was going to turn him in, or tell someone.  Such little faith in her. But that was alright. “It’s okay, D’Artagnan.”

“No, it’s not okay, Constance---”

She hadn’t undone her necklace in ages. It stayed on, even while she slept. Bonacieux couldn’t bear to look at the name there. The knot to her necklace was old and tight. She undid it anyway.

Blue silk tumbled into her hands. “See? There’s nothing to be afraid of, D’Artagnan.” Her voice was colder than she meant it to be. “I’m just as in danger as you are.”

“But---Your husband.”

She shook her head. “Unmarked.”

“He has no problem with it?”

“He has problems,” she admitted, “but he won’t sell me out, and that’s all that matters.”

“Then...We’re alright?”  
“Yeah,” She murmured. “We’re alright.”

Just because he wasn’t her soulmate didn’t mean that they couldn’t be friends.

 

Of course, them being friends led to ungodly amounts of musketeers in her house at all times, her husband’s ire, and her pretending to be a whore far too many times for their elaborate schemes. Yet she wouldn’t give it up for the world. Even if it meant that she had to deal with so many slanders against the Cardinal that it was certain she was going to hell, and far too much political intrigue for any respectable merchant’s wife to be caught up in.

She really hated the political intrigue. Especially when it led to this. “Why do I have to be your bait?”

“We went over this Constance, you’re the only one who is convincing as a woman.”

“I am a woman!”

“Exactly!” Aramis said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “All you have to do is pretend to be the Cardinal’s mistress. Easy!”

“I thought you all hated the Cardinal. Why’s he agreed to let you lot scheme?”

“Er.” Aramis coughed.  “Well. There may have been a slight matter…”

“What.”

“You have to agree to do it before we tell you.”

“Fine.” She narrowed her eyes. “What is it.”

“It involves the queen?”

“How so.”

“She may or may not be likely to be kidnapped? Or so our source tells us.”

“And our source is definitely right,” Athos agreed, nodding in the way that he probably thought made him look noble and majestic. He didn’t. Soulmate of her best friend or not, he was still a twat.

“You’ll hardly have to do a thing, Constance.”

That was the most blatant lie she’d ever heard.

 

The Cardinal de Richelieu was a tall and imposing man, and eyes that felt like they knew everything, from the names on her body, to the way she hated strawberries, to the gun hidden in her skirts. “You’ll do,” he said to her finally, then stared out at the dancing couples.

“When do you think---”

“Soon.”

She fiddled with her sleeves. The dress she had on was far grander than anything she had before, with lace and red silk. Yet when she pulled at the stitching, it came loose. Hastily thrown together. Not an old dress of one of his actual mistresses, then.

But who would be the mistress of the Cardinal De Richelieu? For most people, the word mistress just meant soulmate who wasn’t their wife, but Constance wasn’t that naive. There were marked girls who wanted to go up in the world, unmarked ones that wanted prestige and nice things that a soulmate would never give them. Who would be the mistress of the Cardinal?

According to her musketeers, the consensus was that he had no soulmate. But unmarked people were few and far between, and he moved with a grace that seemed far too tender.  Not like he was waiting for someone to complete him, more like he knew exactly where they were, and was not upset by lack of proximity.  Like a _pas de deux_ in ballet; just because they were apart did not mean that they were not still the same.

The King entered, and she tore her thoughts away from the mysterious Cardinal de Richelieu to stare at actual royalty. This would likely be the only chance that she had in her lifetime to do so. The King of France, barely a few feet before her.  He moved with a sort of grace that one could only expect from the aristocracy, but his smiles were easy to achieve. He seemed so happy. Constance used to dream about being so happy.

The Queen entered from the other side of the room, resplendent and draped in golden fabric. She was beautiful; golden and glittering like a star, or perhaps the sun. She attracted power with every step she took, like an ancient queen from the bible, or some fantastical goddess of the greeks.

She was unimaginable.

 

As if on cue, gunshots burst through the hall. “Nobody be alarmed,” A servant that was no servant gave them a crooked smile, pistol trained on the queen. “Play nice, and no one gets hurt,” he said. His lackeys dropped their pretenses

One of his lackeys  tugged at her hair. “Hey, Renault!” He called to their leader, the one who had advanced, and was now placing his gun on the queen’s temple. “This one’s the Cardinal’s bitch.”  He leered at her. “And a looker too.”

Joke was on them, she told herself. She wasn’t going to be docile and demure any longer.

“Take her too, I guess,” The leader---Renault---glanced at her. “More ransom. Well, that is, if he cares to pay it.”

She wouldn’t be frightened. She wouldn’t let herself be frightened. The queen wasn’t frightened, and she had a gun at her head. All Constance had was a hand in her hair and foul breath on her cheek. The plan would work. Even if it didn’t work, her musketeers would hear and come rushing. Nothing would happen to her. They wouldn’t touch her.

“Renault, you know the boss said only to grab the queen,” A third lackey hissed.

“What’s it matter if we take something for ourselves, eh? ‘Sides,” He pulled on one of her curls. “You know I like brunettes.”

“You’ll regret doing this, you know,” The queen stared them down, with a look Constance thought only avenging angels might have. “Kidnapping the queen of France? Where will you go, even after you get your money? England, Spain? Even they aren’t willing to risk a war by letting you into their country.”

The kidnapper simply chuckled. “You two, secure the room. I’ll take this lot.”

“You sure about that, Renault? Who knows what they’ve got hiding…”

“What, two girls? What d’you think they’re gonna do, bite me?”

 

He led them out of the ballroom, and her heartbeat hammered in her throat.. She could do this. She could. It wouldn’t be hard. But this wasn’t shooting at a target. This was a person, with flesh and blood. A person who would bleed, a person who could die…

_Think of what he would do to you if you didn’t_. She tightened her grasp on the hidden gun.  Then pointed. She couldn’t do this. She had to. She couldn’t. She closed her eyes.

She pulled the trigger.

The Queen screamed. Constance staggered backwards. There was so much blood. So much---Renault slumped to the ground. There was so much blood. There was so much blood---oh god, had she killed him---But no, he was still breathing, wasn’t he?

“You saved me.” Her majesty. The Queen of France. Her pretty golden dress was spattered with red now, and her pretty gloved hand was reaching out to touch her as though she couldn’t believe she was real. “What is your name?”

She wasn’t sure if she could speak. She wasn’t sure if she could do anything at all, yet somehow she managed to say, “Constance. Constance Bonacieux.” And for some reason the queen’s eyes lit up like fireworks, and she grabbed at Constance’s hand, and---Oh.

It was as if the world was jolting into color, as if she was hit by lightning. So that’s what they meant by sparks. “Constance,” the queen---Anne---murmured. “My Constance.” And they weren’t complete, they couldn’t be complete until they found their Louis, but it was enough. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. The world seemed a little like a blur, or maybe that was just the shock talking. But she was perfect, she was golden, and oh, oh, she'd finally found her.

Yet all too soon they were being pulled apart. “Anne! Anne, are you alright? Dear god, tell me you’re alright---” The king. Of course he’d be worried. They were married after all. They were married---

And so was Constance. _I will not allow any dalliances,_ Bonacieux had said. He never let her undo her necklace. Her soulmate may have been the queen, but the queen couldn’t do anything without the king, no matter how fond the king was of her. The queen and her could never amount to anything. The queen was not allowed lovers. Women never were. There was no use crying over it; she simply had to accept it.

She straightened up. Vaguely, she registered Porthos’s arm wrapping around her, him asking if she was alright. She wasn’t alright. She told him she was.

Then, “Wait!” Anne cried out, and Constance stopped in her tracks. “Louis, this is Constance, she saved my life.”

But none of that mattered. Constance had stopped listening after the word Louis. Louis. Louis XIII, the King of France. Louis, who was married to the queen. Louis, who fit the name on her shoulder.

She ran to them, ignoring how people told her not to. Nothing mattered except them. It had to be him. But she had to make sure. “What are you---” He began; she grabbed his hands before he could say another word of protest.

There. Like fireworks in the middle of July, warm and exciting and beautiful.

“You,” He murmured. “I told you, Anne, didn’t I? I told you that we were meant to be.”

It was impossible. Too good to be true. Yet somehow, inexplicably, it was.

 

They got married in the spring, when the daisies had first begun to bloom. Some people had tried to stop them, of course, but Louis was the King of France, and no one stopped the King of France. Anne and Louis waited for her at the other end of the aisle, bedecked in jewels and robes, and Constance walked to them, her head held high. Her head held high, because for once the ribbons were in her hair instead of on her neck, and for once, she could breathe. “Never again,” Louis murmured, taking her hand. “You won’t have to worry about your soulmarks ever again.”

“No one will ever have to again,” Anne said, taking her other hand.

You couldn’t change people’s minds with legislation, though you could begin to, and that was all that mattered. Because on a roll of parchment clutched in Louis’s hand, it read: _I, Louis the Thirteenth, do hereby declare_ … and no one would have to be afraid again.

(And if, somewhere to their right, The First Minister of France and the Captain of the Musketeers intertwined their hands with smiles that were too unbelieving to not be real, then Constance wouldn’t say a word.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So. The thing with D'Artagnan's soulmark, since I know someone is going to ask. So, soulmarks are kinda there to help people find their soulmate, right??? but it wouldn't make sense if they changed their name and their soulmark stayed the same, so whenever someone changes their name, their soulmark gets crossed off and then written again with the new name. Does that make any sense??? Anyway, thanks for reading, guys. :)


End file.
